


Succor

by deadlybride



Series: the Full House of Wincest [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drunk Sex, Dysfunctional Family, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Parent/Child Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2019-02-04 21:58:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12780420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: After a particularly hard hunt, John's wrecked; Dean helps.





	Succor

**Author's Note:**

> for my 'Full House of Wincest' bingo card for the variations on how this could go, this fills the square 'Dean initiates'.

There were four dead girls in that pit, tonight. John’s trying not to think about it. When has that ever, ever worked.

His hand on the bottle is shaky, fumbling. He’s sore, from the fight, bruises swelling up and blood smeared tacky over the long scrapes on his side, his shirt ruined. Another shirt ruined. He tries to refill his glass but his left hand is weak, his wrist maybe sprained, and he fumbles it. “Fuck,” he says, out loud, his mouth slow with it. The glass thumps safe down to the thin ratty carpet, rolls away. He takes a swallow straight off the bottle instead, lets it hit his throat like scalding water, roll hot down to the pit of his empty belly. Four girls, he thinks. In the dark he couldn’t see the color of their hair, whether they were young or  _young_. Just the tumbled white pile of their limbs, their blood a uniform black in the moonlight.

“Hey,” he hears, “come on,” and there’s—god. Pale skin, and the room’s so dark, and his vision is blurry for some reason, his grip loose on the bottle. A smaller hand comes in and catches it as it starts to tip, takes it easy out of his reach. “Come on,” the voice says, quiet, “bed, come on. It’s okay.”

A soft hand touches John’s jaw, slides along the too-thick stubble. He catches it in his weak left hand, holds it careful against his face. “It’s not okay,” he says, voice something he doesn’t even recognize. It echoes oddly, inside his head. It’s not. It hasn’t been, not for years. He can’t remember now how many.

“Hey,” he hears, and the voice is so soft. He knows—that’s Dean, he knows that. His little boy. He turns his head, presses a kiss against the tender white palm, the bones fragile and small against his mouth. God, the girls. Everything’s just—

Another hand rubs over his head, runs through his hair. She used to do that. When he was tired, or frustrated. He reaches out, tugs, and there’s a startled  _oh_  above his head, but then there’s—warm soft body, gentle touch, and he presses his wet face against the warm give of stomach, leans into it. Hands alight on the back of his head, slide down to his shoulders, and he holds on to the slight dip of the waist and closes his eyes, and breathes in. Old laundry detergent, warm skin, and there’s the faint smell of gunpowder but what doesn’t smell like gunpowder, these days. A few seconds and there’s a light pressure, hands pushing at his shoulders, and he folds back against it and then Dean is climbing into his lap, knees settling on either side of his hips on the loveseat, his weight grounding John to the earth. His left hand is jostled, his wrist twinging, and he doesn’t know what face he makes but his arm is caught, lifted, laid out of the way along the back of the loveseat. “Careful,” he hears, and he huffs, lets his head tip back against the cushion. Opens his eyes.

It’s Dean. There’s no confusion on that. There’s no light, but the moon is full and shining in bright through the window, the curtains wide open and showing his boy—skin white in the moonlight, eyes dark unreadable shadows. John’s head feels so heavy, his tongue thick and useless in his mouth. This isn’t—he knows this isn’t the first time. Dean’s wearing one of his old USMC shirts, boxers, his skinny knees bare on either side of John’s hips, and John slides his free hand up and finds warm skin, the heave of Dean’s ribs, white belly flashing in the moonlight when the shirt rides up. Flat stomach, and strong, when she’d been—

“Hey, hey,” Dean says again. So quiet, and John blinks, his eyelids heavy. “Be here.”

“I’m here,” he responds, the sound of it slow and stone-rough, and then white hands disappear into the shadows between them, and there’s a brush of cold fingertips as his shirts are rucked up, and an unavoidable tugging as his belt’s undone. He lays back into the couch, lead in his bones, dark behind his eyes, and the buzz of his zip going down is loud, in the room, even under his heavy breath. Cold hand, burrowing down into his boxers, scraping knowingly through the hair and then finding him soft, wrapping unerring around the base and squeezing, a coaxing gentle pull, up and up and up. He takes a breath, lungs shuddering. It’s—dark. Dark, and he’s queasy, blood running hot and the memories rising too thick up into the back of his throat. He shakes his head, and a palm lands on the left side of his face, a thumb strokes easy over his cheekbone.

“No,” he says, and the hand on him stills immediately, but he doesn’t—he wrenches his eyes back open and pulls, clumsy, at the hem of his old shirt, and Dean gets it immediately—his boy, always knowing his cue. Dean tugs off the shirt so he’s bare white in the moonlight, and John still can’t see his eyes but he can see his skin: unbroken, whole. Unruined. He’s still slim, soft, hasn’t hit his last growth spurt, and he shivers in the open air. John runs a hand up the silk skin of his belly, glances over a pebbled nipple, and then hooks over the back of his neck, tugs him in, and Dean comes willing, he bends his mouth to John’s even as his hand tucks back between them, and it’s dry and not the grip John uses on himself but it feels good, regardless, especially with another mouth on his. Dean kisses—clumsy, like he’s not sure what he’s doing. John thinks he’s been with girls—what sixteen year old boy hasn’t, when he looks like Dean—but maybe it’s different, like this. He opens Dean’s mouth with his own and Dean’s tongue touches his, slick and gentle, and when it does Dean makes some small soft sound, deep in the back of his throat. John wraps his arm around Dean’s waist and pulls him in close, lifts his hips up, and Dean’s free hand fists into John’s hair, a sudden startling pull, artless. John’s heart hammers in the base of his throat, his dick full and pulsing, urgent between his legs. He kisses Dean, unthinking rough, and then pulls back to breathe up hot into the space between them.

Dean’s eyes are huge, almost black, his mouth a wet dark panting thing, teeth flashing white, his face set and focused. He’s jerking John steadily now, long grasping pulls, his hand soft when John could take—god, so much more. He could—he could move them, he could roll Dean beneath him, take the responsibility of this, take the weight. He could make Dean open up his legs and open his mouth and Dean would, he would, and it would be John’s fault, then. Dean twists his wrist, slides his thumb sloppy over where John’s started to leak, and John lets out a groan thick and rich into the air, and knows that it is his fault, now. No matter what comes after, no matter that Dean has leaned in and pressed a soft eager clumsy kiss against John’s mouth, no matter that he groans when John slides his tongue in, when John holds his bare throat gentle under one callused hand—this falls on John, on his choices, on the dark that has settled under his ribs, in his shuddering heart. “What—” he says, or starts to say, pressed up against Dean’s tender mouth, but he bites his lips closed and bends his head down, presses his face against the sweet warm curve of Dean’s shoulder, and his strong right hand he tucks down between them and cups the bulge of Dean’s cock, grinds in firmly where it’s threatening the front of his boxers, and Dean’s breath hitches high and urgent and his hips lurch in and his hand tightens over John’s own dick, his body yearning and desperate, and it’s not long, from there, their separate flesh pressing close and hot, Dean humping in shocked against him and he pushing up heartsick into Dean, and then— _oh my god_ , Dean whispers, and then goes silent, and wet sharp heat bursts against John’s palm, soaking the thin cotton boxers, and he wraps his arm tight around Dean’s skinny waist and crushes him in close and humps up and comes like that, breath heaving in his chest, muffling any sound he might make against the fine skin between his teeth.

A hand pushes into his hair, grips at the back of his head. He’s pulled back, at last, and when he opens his eyes he can see that Dean is watching him, sprawled in close on his lap. The hand on his dick lets go, slowly, and he lays back once more against the lumpy cushion of the loveseat, his bones feeling—old, tired. A kiss is pressed against the corner of his mouth, oddly… shy, somehow, despite everything, and he closes his eyes again against the pain of it. Why, he wants to say. How did you know, he wants to say.  _Where did you learn this_ , he wants to say even more, and knows that he will not, because all that could do is hurt Dean, and he’s done more than enough of that already.

“Bed,” Dean reminds, eventually, and swings one knee over, lifts his weight away. “Maybe water, too. You’re gonna be hungover, in the morning.”

John snorts, drags a hand over his face. It smells like—and the weird awful heat rises up behind his eyes again, but he’s lost his right to that. “You go to bed, too,” he says, and maybe it sounds like it’s dragged out from the grave but there’s enough authority in it that Dean draws away, gets to his feet.

“Night, Dad,” he whispers, and John opens his eyes to watch his boy slip soft-footed away to the bedroom door, white-skinned and young, disappearing into the dark where—good lord, his little brother is still sleeping, John hopes to god.

John sits forward on the loveseat, tucks himself back into his jeans. This shirt really is a ruin, now, and he’ll have to throw it away before the boys wake up. Pretend it never happened. The whiskey bottle sits on the floor, neatly capped, and he picks it up and holds it between his no longer shaking hands. He sits there, silent, for a long time. Then, he puts the whiskey back on the kitchenette counter, and goes into the bathroom and cleans his scrapes and takes a shower, and then he goes into the bedroom and passes the bed where his sons are sleeping, and lies alone in his own bed, and presses his face into the pillow, and closes his eyes, and sleeps. There’s another hunt to get to, in the morning.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](http://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/167648905139/succor)


End file.
